Strangers

I woke up hard, decided not to jerk off the usual way, and went cruising. What I didn’t expect was to end up kneeling with three cocks around my face.

He asked me not to wash before I went. I thought it would be just another whim, but that night I found out how far my own shame could go.

When she opened the door and saw him standing there, she knew no one had ever looked at him the way she was about to. And he meant to prove them all wrong.

“Don’t move from there,” she ordered in a low voice, pressing her heel against me. And I, a stranger, obeyed without a second thought.

I thought I was only going to watch the filming of Europe’s dirtiest movie. They hadn’t told me about the two seats—or the woman occupying the one beside me.

I had never taken a job like that before: he only wanted to sit and watch while other men used me, and keep for the end what they left inside me.

I couldn’t stop staring at her boots. When she caught me, instead of pulling away, she asked if I was one of those who die to kiss soles.

I asked him to put on my heels so I’d tower over him, and on his face I knew that night he wasn’t in charge of anything.

He only wanted a decent shirt. But then she looked up from behind the counter, and Andrés’s mind began inventing what was never going to happen.

When my husband got up to go to the bathroom, I knew the man at the next table would come over. I still hadn’t told him I was afraid to go back to something like that.

We’d been living in routine for fifteen years until a toy forgotten in a drawer sparked something neither of us knew how to control. And that was only the beginning.

When I went down to the lobby looking to escape the corporate party, I never expected the bartender who would look at me like he knew exactly what I needed that night.

I could have changed in thirty seconds. Instead, I walked to the door in heels, knowing perfectly well what he was about to see.

She told me she had never said this out loud, that for years it had been only a hidden fantasy. That afternoon, she finally let a stranger do whatever he wanted to her.

She came to pose as queen of the underworld. I fired the flash again and again, professional as ever, until she spread her legs and I understood the session was something else.

She came to my house with two beers and a story she needed to get out: the night she realized she loved giving up control completely.

While he boiled the tea, the two men tied to the table were beginning to realize that no one would leave that living room tonight the way they had entered.

“I make the rules, and you follow them,” she said, and none of the four of us dared contradict her. Months of isolation had left us at her mercy.

I’d spent years dressing in secret, but that night I put on the boots, the fishnets, and the velvet dress, and walked out the door as her.

Some people collect stamps or travel souvenirs. I collect nights, mouths, and hands I’ve already forgotten, and I still don’t understand why I should be ashamed of that.