The Mature Man Who Taught Me to Obey Him

My name is Mariana and, until a few months ago, I would have sworn I was the last person in the world capable of kneeling before anyone. I live in Monterrey, I’m twenty-eight, and, according to what people have told me since I was a teenager, I have a body people can’t quite hide the fact that they look at. I’m not saying that to brag. I’m saying it because for years it was a nuisance: older men undressing me with their eyes on the bus, the low comments, the gazes that stuck to my cleavage when all I wanted was to buy bread.

I told myself it disgusted me. And that was true. What I didn’t dare admit was that, in some corner I preferred not to visit, it also made me feel something more complicated than disgust. That sometimes, when I got home, I’d put two fingers in my cunt thinking about those looks and make myself come in less than a minute, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t scream.

I understood it when I met him.

***

It was a night of insomnia, one of those when you end up doing things you’d be ashamed of in daylight. I went into an adult chat out of curiosity, with no real intention of doing anything, just to look. There were several clumsy attempts, conversations I abandoned halfway through, men who wrote as if they were fifteen. And then suddenly Damián appeared.

He didn’t ask how I was. He didn’t toss me a cheap compliment. His first message was a short order, almost bored, as if he already knew I’d do as he said. And what was unsettling was that I felt the impulse to obey before I decided whether I even wanted to.

—Send me your number —he wrote—. I don’t like texting.

I deleted it three times. Typed it again. Sent it to him.

The phone rang two minutes later.

***

His voice was deep, measured, the voice of a man in his fifties who had nothing to prove to anyone. I didn’t even know what to say. I stammered out a greeting, let out a nervous laugh, tried to fill the silence with nonsense.

—Shut up —he said, without raising his tone—. I didn’t call you to talk. I called you to listen.

I should have hung up. Instead, I stayed very still on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding against my chest and an absurd answer slipping out of my mouth.

—Yes —I said.

—Yes, what?

I hesitated. He waited. The silence turned thick, demanding.

—Yes, sir —I corrected, and the word set my skin on fire and my cunt suddenly soaked, as if my body had understood before I did what was happening.

I heard him smile on the other end. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who had just found exactly what he was looking for.

***

That first call lasted almost an hour. Damián asked me questions no man had ever dared ask me, and I answered all of them. He asked what I was wearing. He asked if I liked being looked at. He asked why I pretended I didn’t.

Because I’m scared of what it means if I do, I thought. I didn’t say it. But I think he heard it anyway.

—Take off your clothes —he ordered when I had no more excuses—. All of them. And get your nipples hard before you lower your hand.

My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my blouse. I took off my bra and felt the cool air on my tits, my nipples tightening without needing to be touched. When I obeyed and pinched them as he told me to —slowly, rolling them between my index finger and thumb until a moan escaped me— he heard it and gave a low laugh.

—That’s it. Now spread your legs. I want to hear how wet you are.

I lowered my underwear with my free hand and ran two fingers along my cunt slit. I was drenched. The sound of my own wetness, magnified through the phone, made me close my eyes in shame.

—I can hear it —he said, with that calm that was worse than shouting—. You’re dripping for a man you’ve never even seen. What does that say about you, Mariana?

—That I’m a whore —I whispered, without thinking, and it frightened me how quickly it came out.

—Say it again.

—That I’m a whore.

—My whore —he corrected—. Say it properly.

—Your whore, sir.

—Good. Now put three fingers in and fuck yourself thinking about me. Slowly. You’re not coming until I give you permission.

I fingered myself while he talked to me, and there was nothing gentle in the way he spoke: he called me things that any other night would have offended me, crude, filthy words, said with a calm that made them worse. He described how he would open my ass the first time, how he would make me suck his cock down my throat, how I would beg him to come inside me. And yet each one of them pushed me farther, as if he were authorizing me to be something I had kept held in for years.

When he finally let me come, I had been begging him for twenty minutes. I convulsed on the bed with my three fingers knuckle-deep, biting my arm so I wouldn’t wake the whole building, and Damián’s voice on the other end of the phone followed every shudder as if he had me tied to him by an invisible thread.

—That’s it —he murmured when my voice broke—. That’s the real Mariana. The one you pretend not to be during the day.

I stayed trembling, the phone pressed to my ear, my fingers shining with my own come and my eyes full of something that wasn’t exactly shame. He noticed.

—Don’t be ashamed —he said, now softer—. You just found yourself. That’s not nothing. Suck your fingers before you sleep. I want you to remember what you taste like.

I obeyed.

***

The following weeks changed the way I lived. Damián called without warning, sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes in the middle of an ordinary afternoon, and I learned to wait for those calls with a mix of anxiety and desire I had never felt before. He gave me instructions for the day: what underwear to wear under my work clothes —sometimes none—, what time to think about him, what things I wasn’t allowed to do without his permission. He forbade me from coming without him on the phone. I complied. Every night.

What was extraordinary was how hard it was for me to recognize myself. I, who had always decided everything in my life, who led a team of six people at the agency where I worked, discovered a strange kind of peace in obeying that man whose face I hadn’t even seen.

One night I dared to ask him.

—Why do I like this? I’m not like this.

—Yes, you are —he answered—. No one had just ever allowed it. There’s a huge difference between being weak and choosing to surrender. You’re not weak. That’s why it’s interesting.

I fell silent. He was right, and that scared me more than anything else.

***

There was one afternoon I won’t forget. I was in the middle of a meeting, surrounded by clients and graphs on a screen, when the phone vibrated on the table. It was him. I didn’t answer, of course, but the message was a single line: an instruction I had to carry out before six, no matter where I was. Go into the office bathroom, take off your panties, put them in your bag, and don’t put them back on until I tell you.

I spent the rest of the meeting with my face composed into impeccable professionalism, my pencil skirt clinging to my naked ass and my pulse racing inside me. I could feel my cunt getting wet every time I shifted in my chair, the rough fabric rubbing directly against my lips. No one in that room could imagine that the woman leading the presentation had her panties balled up in her purse and her clit throbbing under the table. That secret double life, the one of the confident boss by day and his by night, became a drug. The more control I exercised at work, the more I needed to hand it over to him afterward.

—You like it —he told me that night, when I confessed it to him—. You like knowing that only you and I know what you really are. That while you were signing contracts your cunt was soaked for me.

I didn’t deny it. I had already stopped denying him things.

***

It took him two months to suggest we meet. He did it, like everything else, without asking permission, with the certainty of someone who already knows the answer.

—Friday —he said—. A hotel downtown. I’ll send you the address. You arrive at nine, not before, not after. And you come as I tell you. No panties. No bra. Black dress, heels. Waxed. Everything.

I spent those days in a feverish state. Part of me wanted to invent an excuse and disappear. The other counted the hours. On Friday I got ready following each of his instructions, looked at myself for a long time in the mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back at me: the same as always and, at the same time, someone ready for something she had never dared name.

I arrived at nine on the dot.

***

Damián was taller than I had imagined and had silver at his temples. He wasn’t magazine handsome; he was something better, something you noticed in the way he occupied the room, in the calm way he shut the door behind me and looked me up and down without any hurry.

—Turn around —he said.

I did, slowly. I felt his gaze travel over me like two months of words on the phone concentrated into a single instant.

—Come here.

I crossed the room with my legs trembling. When I stood in front of him, he lifted my chin with one finger, and for the first time we really looked at each other. His voice, that voice I knew better than the voices of many friends, sounded different up close.

—Are you still pretending you didn’t want this? —he asked.

—No —I admitted—. Not anymore.

He kissed me then, and it wasn’t the soft kiss one expects from a first meeting. It was a taking kiss, one that made it clear whose night it was. He held me by the nape, not hurting me but not leaving me any room to doubt, and with his other hand he yanked my dress up to my waist to make sure I had obeyed. When his fingers brushed my naked cunt and found it soaked, he growled against my mouth.

—Good girl.

I melted against him with a surrender I hadn’t known lived inside me.

***

What followed was slow and deliberate, the opposite of what fear had made me imagine. Damián wasn’t in a hurry. He pulled my dress off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and I stood before him with nothing but my heels on. He turned me to look at me from every angle, ran his open palm over my ass, squeezed a tit as if it belonged to him, and made me spread my legs so he could slide two fingers into my cunt without warning, right there, standing in the middle of the room.

—Look at yourself —he said, pulling out his shining fingers and holding them in front of my face—. Suck them.

I opened my mouth. I sucked my own juice from his fingers while looking him in the eyes, and he drew in a sharp breath for the first time all night.

—On your knees.

I went down as if I had spent my whole life waiting for that order. I unbuckled his belt, his trousers, and pulled out his cock, thick and heavy, the tip already wet. I looked at it for a second, memorizing it, and then took it into my mouth as far as I could. Damián grabbed my hair, not violently but not letting me back away, and started fucking my mouth to his rhythm. The tip bumped the back of my throat and I swallowed, endured, saliva dripped down my chin and I didn’t care at all. Tears slid down my face from the effort and he brushed them away with his thumb without stopping.

—That’s it, my whore. All of it. I know you can.

When he pulled his cock out of my mouth, a strand of saliva hung from my lip. He hauled me up, took me to the bed, and threw me face down. He put a pillow under my hips, pried my legs open with his knee, and took his time running his tongue over me from the nape of my neck, down my back, over the cheeks of my ass, until he reached my open cunt and ate me from behind, long and slow, sucking my lips, flicking my clit with the tip of his tongue, slipping in two fingers and curling them exactly where they needed to go. I begged him. I pleaded out loud for him to fuck me already. He kept eating me until the first orgasm caught me by surprise and I screamed into the mattress.

Only then did he push inside me.

He fucked me slowly, centimeter by centimeter, letting me feel every nerve, all the way in, and stayed there still for a second, savoring it, before beginning to fuck me for real. I clutched the sheets. Every thrust tore a different gasp from me. He changed my position without ever leaving me: doggy style with my face against the sheets, then on my back with my legs against his chest, then on top of him riding him while he squeezed my tits and guided my hips with his hands. He made me wait. He made me ask. Everything he gave me came with a price in obedience, and I discovered paying it lit me up more than any caress.

—Look at me —he ordered at the exact moment I most wanted to close my eyes.

I looked at him. I looked at him while riding him, with his cock buried to the hilt, with his hands leaving marks on my hips, with the second orgasm rising from my feet. I wanted him to see what he had done to me, what he had turned me into, or rather what he had brought out of me. And he saw it. I saw it on his face that he saw it. And when I finally asked permission to come —"please, sir, please"— he gave it to me in two words and I came apart on his cock, trembling from head to toe. He held on for a few more thrusts, pulled me down onto the mattress, spread my legs wide open and came inside me in three deep strokes, growling my name like he was spitting it out.

I felt his hot semen filling me, sliding inside when he finally pulled out. He made no move to clean me. He looked at me, opened my cunt with two fingers to watch it come out, and smiled.

—That’s my place —he said—. Don’t forget it.

***

Afterward we stayed silent, my head resting on his chest, still dripping his come between my thighs, while his hand drew lazy circles on my back. The room smelled of us, of sex, of sweat, of what had just happened. Through the window came the muffled noise of the city, indifferent to what had happened three floors above.

—Are you okay? —he asked. It was the first time he had asked me like that, without the armor of command.

—Better than okay —I said, and it was true.

I thought about the Mariana who had entered that chat on a night of insomnia, convinced that disgust was the only thing she felt when a man looked at her. I thought about all the years I had spent arguing with myself. And I understood that Damián hadn’t changed me: he had only given me permission to stop lying to myself.

—When will you call me again? —I asked against his skin.

I felt him smile, that smile I knew even if I couldn’t see it.

—When you least expect it —he said—. And you’re going to answer. With your panties off.

—Yes, sir —I replied.

And for the first time, that word didn’t set my skin on fire with shame, but with something much more like being, at last, home.