Humiliation

I’m finally writing it down: what turns me on is being the anonymous little faggot of a married man, kneeling without knowing his name and him not knowing mine either. That’s it. Over and over.

I turn off the light, open the story, and let my hand drift down. In my head there’s always someone in the corner of the room, watching, waiting to come in.

They put the blue ribbon around my neck, the only one different from the rest, and I walked down those stairs knowing those six men would discover what I was hiding.

She had been with Rodrigo for two years and told herself it was only a drink with a coworker. When she stepped into Lautaro’s apartment, she knew there was no going back.

I came back after twenty years to a southern city. That night, in a hotel in the red-light district, two strangers decided I wasn’t sleeping alone.

They treated him like furniture, absolutely sure nothing they did touched him. It took them weeks to learn how wrong they were.

When the anesthetic wore off and he opened his eyes, he was already naked, cuffed to a chair, and surrounded by four women who had been waiting a month for this moment.

I thought I had the situation under control. I thought an old man with no strength couldn’t do anything to me. That was my first mistake of the morning.

I arrived at two in the morning with a dry mouth and one idea in my head: that night I wasn’t going to set any limits, no matter what happened among the pavilions.

We didn’t even read the clauses. I knew what I wanted: to live with him, do whatever I pleased with his body, and when he died, keep everything.

I watched her fold sheets in those light-colored leggings and prayed she wouldn’t notice the bulge in my shorts. Then one day she turned and asked why I was looking at her like that.

I’m a closet tranny. I’d spent months obeying his emails when he wrote that he’d be coming to my city, and I knew that afternoon he’d do with me everything he had ordered.

He wore an expensive suit and had a stare that intimidated everyone at the table, but he couldn’t stop looking at my feet. And I knew exactly what I was going to do with that.

Every night I wake drenched in sweat to the same scene: Mrs. Vilma locking the door, slipping on her gloves, and promising me there’d be no laughing this time.

Forty minutes earlier my hands were shaking. Now I’m holding the harness, and for the first time in eighteen years, I’m the one deciding what happens in this room.

I showed her the video, and she collapsed on the living-room floor. But when she rose again, she was no longer the woman her husband had humiliated for twenty years.

He called me as evening fell to warn me he’d be late. By then I’d already started getting ready: the wig, the makeup, the plug. Only him was missing.

The mirror showed me a perfect bride. No one imagined what I would be forced to do in room 131 before getting into the wedding car.

I had her caged beside the table, on all fours, while my friends ate and tossed leftovers onto the metal tray. That was only the beginning.

Bound in her cage, Renata still believed she was untouchable, certain her slaves would die for her. Darío smiled: he was about to show her how much that loyalty was worth.