What I Discovered When I Let Another Man In

I’m going to tell you, in broad strokes but without filters, how I discovered that I’m totally submissive and that for me there is no other way to have sex. I’m writing it because sometimes I read confessions out there and I struggle to find voices like mine: men who feel no guilt at all for preferring to give themselves over and who took, like I did, a long time to fully accept it.

Until I was twenty I had only been with my own hands. I lived in a small city, in a fairly traditional family, and the only thing I was clear about was that I liked boys more than it was allowed to say out loud. That’s why I started early sticking things up my ass: first one finger in the shower, slippery with soap, up to the knuckle; then two, opening myself slowly until I felt the ring give way; later the long handle of a brush well lubricated with hand cream, which had me on my knees against the bathtub, biting the towel so I wouldn’t scream. When I worked up the courage I ordered my first toy online, a medium-sized silicone dildo, and received the package with no return address, trembling at the door. That same night I put the whole thing in, sitting on it on the bed, and came without touching my cock, splattering my navel, just from feeling my ass open around something that wasn’t my own hand.

I trained myself almost daily. It wasn’t an obsession, it was an intimate routine. I put on soft music, lit a candle, and took my time. I learned to read my own body: when it would take more, when I had to wait, how to breathe deeply right at the moment of the push so the pleasure wouldn’t be cut off by pain. I learned to ride doggy-style with the dildo stuck to the floor with a suction cup, to mount it with my legs open looking at myself in the mirror, to fuck myself on my back with my knees against my chest so it would go all the way in. I studied every corner of my hole: the exact spot inside that, when the tip brushed it, made pre-cum drip from me even if my cock wasn’t fully hard. All I was missing was knowing what it felt like with a real man inside, with a warm, throbbing piece of flesh, coming inside me.

That part came on a Saturday in March, a year and a half after graduation.

Matías had been my desk mate for the last two years of high school. He was the typical guy who flirted with everyone and whom I’d watch out of the corner of my eye when he stood up to grab his backpack, guessing the bulge under his pants. Nothing ever happened between us, but more than one look hung in the air longer than necessary. When he texted me asking if I was in town, since he was spending the weekend there, I knew immediately what was going to happen. Not out of arrogance: I just knew.

We met at a small bar near the river. He ordered beer, I did too, even though I don’t like it. We talked about school, the teachers, who had gotten married, who had left the country. On the third round Matías looked at me, his head tilted a little, and asked if I lived alone. I said yes. We paid without arguing and walked in silence the four blocks to my apartment.

As soon as I closed the door, he tossed his jacket on a chair and cornered me against the hallway wall. It wasn’t aggressive: it was decisive. He kissed me with a calm that didn’t match the urgency I could feel under his pants, that hard cock pushing against my thigh through the fabric. Matías always knew what he wanted, and that night it turned out he wanted this too. He pushed his tongue down my throat and grabbed my ass with both hands, pressing me against his bulge, grinding himself on me.

—Have you done it before? —he asked in my ear while he pulled my zipper down.

—With nobody. Just myself.

I said it without shame. He gave a low laugh and bit my earlobe.

—Then we’ll take it slow. But I’m going to take the whole thing.

We took it slow. I led him to the bedroom by the hand and he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked my pants and boxer briefs down in one pull, leaving me standing there, my cock bouncing in front of his face. He still didn’t touch me. He looked at me from below, with a half smile, and unbuckled his belt. When he dropped his pants I saw his cock for the first time: it wasn’t gigantic, but it was beautiful, thick at the base, with a wide head and tight balls underneath. I knelt without him asking. I took it into my mouth as far as I could, tasting the salty flavor of the fluid shining on the tip, and he let out a long gasp, his nape against the headboard.

—Like that, slow, suck my whole cock —he said, grabbing my hair—. Get it good and wet, because now I’m going to put it in your ass.

I sucked his cock for a long while, spitting saliva along the shaft, wrapping his balls with my tongue, choking each time he pushed his hips forward to make me take it deeper. When he lifted me by the hair and threw me facedown on the bed, I was already trembling.

I had decent lube in the nightstand drawer and one condition only: that he not cut me up inside. Matías coated his fingers and shoved the first one in hard, to the knuckle, and I bit the pillow. Then the second, turning them, opening me. The third took more work. He prepped me with three fingers for what felt like an eternity while I pressed my face into the pillow, ass up, listening to my own ragged breathing and the slosh of lube going in and out of my hole. When I finally felt the tip of his cock pressing at the ring, I held my breath. The difference with a toy is hard to explain: there’s heat, there’s trembling, there’s a human weight behind the thrust, there’s a cock pulsing to the rhythm of someone else’s heart. It isn’t an object: it’s someone.

The first entry hurt. Just a second, that second in which the body decides whether to close or open. Matías didn’t move forward. He stayed very still with his head buried in the doorway, one hand on my hip and the other on my nape, waiting. When I relaxed my shoulders, he pushed a little more. And a little more. I felt the whole shaft opening me from the inside, settling against my walls, each centimeter waking up a nerve I didn’t even know I had. He pulled out all the way with a wet sound, and went back in in one thrust, this time all the way to the balls, slamming my ass against his pelvis. I heard my own moans as if they were coming from someone else, and at the same time something in me was learning, recording every micro-adjustment, every different angle at which his cock scraped me inside.

—You’ve got such a tight ass, you fucking bastard —he whispered in my ear—. I’m going to fuck you all night.

Five minutes later it no longer hurt. After ten, I asked him not to stop. After fifteen I realized the pleasure wasn’t coming from my own hand squeezing me in front: it was coming from him, moving behind me, burying it in me to the hilt with thrusts that got longer and longer, rougher and rougher. The bed creaked. The smell of sweat and lube filled the room. My cock was dripping underneath me, stuck to the mattress, and I hadn’t touched it even once. I came with his chest pressed to my back, his chin on my shoulder and his cock buried to the root when I felt the hot jet painting my walls from the inside, a long spurt, three, four jolts, and I came underneath without using my hands, moaning with my mouth open into the pillow, with a new sensation in the center of my body that didn’t resemble anything I’d felt before. When he pulled his cock out, I felt the semen run down the inside of my thigh.

We slept for a while. The next morning Matías left early, no drama, after putting his cock in my mouth one last time and coming on my tongue while I looked up at him. We promised to write; we didn’t. It wasn’t love and it wasn’t a wound: it was a door.

***

After him there were two strange years. I had a few digital hookups, a few conversations that never became dates, lots of new toys. I bought a bigger one, with pronounced veins and a broad glans like a small fist, and I learned to relax with it in any position: riding it in the shower with hot water running down my back, or stuffing it into myself on my back against the edge of the desk while I watched porn with the other hand. But it wasn’t enough anymore. I already knew the other thing existed, the real thing, that cock that breathes, that swells right before it comes, that fills your ass with warm cum. Dildos had become practice, not a solution.

I met Joaquín in a bookstore. I’m not going to tell how, because I keep that beginning for ourselves. We’ve been together a year and seven months, and the first time he came over, after three weeks of dating, I knew I was going to give myself over completely. Not in a theatrical way: I just felt it.

The problem was that Joaquín was shy. Very shy. Shy in general, but especially shy in bed. The first few times we did almost everything except what I wanted most: we sucked each other off, jerked each other off, he ate my ass with his tongue for hours —God, he was so good at it, the way he spread my cheeks with both hands and slipped the tip of his tongue inside until he had me moaning like a bitch—, but when it was time to put it in, he stopped. He’d wait for a signal and I, out of cowardice or respect, didn’t dare give it to him in words. We’d fall asleep wrapped around each other, our cocks still hard between our legs, happy but only halfway there.

One Friday night, after a dinner in which I drank a little more wine than usual, I sat on his thighs with both hands on his face and told him.

—I want you to fuck me. Tonight. No fear. I want your cock inside me and I want you to come in the back of my ass.

Joaquín turned red to the ears. Then he laughed, that nervous laugh he has when he feels caught. And then he stopped laughing.

—Are you sure? It’s thick. Thicker than any of your toys. I don’t want to hurt you.

That sentence sums it all up: him thinking about me before himself. I told him yes, that I had been preparing for this for years without even knowing it. I unbuttoned his pants right there, on top of him, and when I pulled his boxer briefs down and saw his cock for the first time, fully hard, I understood what he meant. It was short compared to the ones I’d seen in videos, but incredibly thick, with pronounced veins and a wide, red, shiny head that barely fit in my palm when I grabbed it. I sucked it for a while right there sitting on him, only halfway down, choking each time I tried to take it deeper, spitting saliva along the sides until I had it all wet and dripping.

—Come here —he said, his voice breaking—. To the bed.

Joaquín has a thick cock. Thicker than long, which for someone like me, who had barely handled a medium dildo, was a considerable change. He put me on my back on the bed, with a pillow under my hips, and spread my legs until he had them against my chest. He wanted to watch my face. He smeared my ass with an obscene amount of lube, coating my ring well with two fingers, sliding them in and out until they made that wet slapping sound that drives me wild. Then he lubed up his cock, set the head against my opening and pushed.

The first time he put the tip in and pulled it out three times before advancing. The head was so wide that each time he wanted to get in it made me curl my toes. He used half the bottle of lube. Every centimeter was a pause. I asked him to go deeper and he told me no, not yet, wait.

—Trust me —he kept repeating, his voice a little broken, sweat running from his forehead down his chest—. Almost there. Breathe, love. Let the air out.

I exhaled and he took the chance to win another centimeter, and then another, until I felt his hot balls against my ass cheeks and knew he was all the way in. It took him almost twenty minutes to be fully inside. And when he was, I was crying. Not from pain: from something stranger, something I still can’t quite name. It was as if a part of me that had been secretly preparing for years finally had permission to exist in front of another person. I was full. I was open. I felt every beat of his cock against my walls, every pulse, like a second heart inside my body.

—Don’t stop —I begged him.

He didn’t stop. He started moving softly, pulling out only halfway and pushing back in slowly, his forehead pressed to the back of my neck when he turned me onto my side, then facedown, then on my back again, looking for the angle. One hand on my chest, pinching my nipple, and the other intertwined with mine over the pillow. When he found the exact angle, when the thick head of his cock started brushing that spot inside me that I knew so well from so many hours alone, my whole body arched. He didn’t touch me in front. No need. My cock was slapping against my stomach with each thrust, leaving a puddle of pre-cum on my navel. He started speeding up, fucking me harder, each sharp blow of his hips against my ass sounding through the whole room.

—I’m going to come —I warned him, not even believing it myself—. I’m going to come without touching myself.

—Come —he panted—. Come with my cock inside you. I want to feel you clench.

I finished without anyone jerking me off, something I had come close to with toys but never quite achieved. Long white jets that reached my chest and chin, while my ass clenched in spasms around his cock. He held on a few seconds longer, looking at my face with his mouth open, and then he buried himself to the hilt and came inside me with a rough groan, gripping my hips with both hands, unloading inside with long shudders that I felt perfectly, one by one. He finished slowly, never stopping kissing my shoulder, still hard, still inside, until his cock softened and slipped out on its own, followed by a thread of semen that ran down the crack of my ass to the sheet.

***

That night was a year and a half ago, and since then we’ve learned. We learned together. Today there isn’t a session in which he doesn’t finish inside me and I don’t need to touch myself, except when we play at something else. We’ve tried positions —doggy with my face against the mattress, me riding him with my hands on his chest, spooning half asleep, standing with one of my legs propped on the sink—, we’ve tried rhythms, we’ve tried staying still for a long time just to feel each other, with his cock buried to the hilt and our breathing synchronized. Sometimes he preps me for half an hour with his mouth and fingers before penetrating me, eating my ass until I beg him to put it in; sometimes he does it in five minutes against the bathroom tiles when we’re about to go out somewhere, with our pants around our thighs and his cock filling me with cum before we get dressed.

What changed isn’t what we do, but what I understood. I understood that being submissive, for me, is not being less. I understood that giving my ass is also a way of having all the power, because he moves for me, attentive to every gesture, and I am the center of his complete attention while he buries it in me. Submission, as a couple, humbles no one: it binds.

Sometimes, when we’re sitting across from each other on the couch watching a movie, I think about what my life would have been like if I had never opened that package with no return address at nineteen. If I had never answered Matías’s message. If I had never asked Joaquín, with two glasses of wine in me, to fuck me without fear. I would probably still be touching myself alone, shoving dildos into myself in the shower, convinced that was all the truth available to someone like me.

And it wasn’t. For me, now I know it, pleasure goes through one door only, and a cock opened it. First one, then another. And this other one isn’t going away. Not for now.

I write it here because maybe someone will read it and recognize something. If you’re at the beginning of the path, I’d tell you not to rush, to practice alone, to learn your ass by heart before asking anyone to invade it. And if you already have someone who looks at you patiently, trust them with your whole body, spread your legs without fear. It’s absolutely worth it.