The key scraped in the lock. A short, sharp sound that made me freeze. I pushed the door open and left the light off. The hallway was dark and familiar. I slipped off my coat. The fabric rustled. My fingertips were cold.
Behind me I heard the door fall shut. His footsteps on the mat. The sound of his breathing, deep and steady.
Weeks of messages lay behind us. Not only the erotic ones. The long conversations about books, about work, about things that mattered. He was intelligent. That had struck me from the very beginning. Now he was here. In my house.
I hung up my coat and helped him with his. Our fingers brushed briefly. We walked through the dark hallway into the living room. The heavy curtains kept the light of the streetlamps outside. Only the lamp beside the sofa burned, exactly as I had left it before leaving. The silence between us was tangible.
My heart beat hard in my throat. I cleared it.
“Would you like something to drink?”
He turned slowly toward me. In the half-darkness his eyes were two dark patches. The man who an hour ago in the restaurant had still laughed at my story was gone. Something else looked at me.
His hand moved. Fast. An open palm against my cheek. The sound was hard and dry. My head snapped sideways. The shock went straight through my chest. My cheek burned. A second slap. The other side. The pain was sharper. Tears sprang into my eyes, not from sadness. More from something releasing. As if all the tension of the past weeks came together in those two blows.
I looked into his dark eyes. My lips fell open. I didn’t have to pretend. Desire and fear sat plainly on my face.
I felt the fabric of my panties cling damply against me. The pain on my cheeks pulled like heat down into my belly.
“What a whore you are,” he said. His voice was lower than it had been in the restaurant. “Standing there looking at me all tempting and eager. You should see yourself.”
I wanted to answer, but my breath sat high. My stomach clenched.
“First we’re going to see whether you’re good enough to be my slave,” he said. “Have you practiced? The way I asked you to?”
I shrank. All evening I had felt it. The pressure, the weight, the secret I had carried with me through the restaurant and the street.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I’ve had it in all evening.”
The word “Master” almost left my lips. I swallowed it. Not yet. Only when I no longer had a choice.
“Then let’s feel whether you’re just all talk.”
He turned me around. His hands lay firm on my shoulders. He pushed me forward over the dining table. The wood was cool under my palms. My cheek pressed hard against the surface.
“Stay down and shut up.”
My skirt was pulled up over my back. He pushed his foot between my ankles and spread my legs. The air touched my bare skin. I was open. Exposed. For a brief moment I wanted to flee. The desire was stronger.
His hand rested on my ass. The fabric of my panties was pulled aside. Then I felt him draw the plug out. The metal made a small sound as it fell onto the table. The emptiness was sudden. Immediately afterward his fingers were where the plug had been. Two of them. Warm, moving, stretching. Different from the dead weight I had carried all evening.
Then came the pressure of his cock. Hard and warm. He pushed in controlled. The first stretch burned. I squeezed my eyes shut. Inch by inch he went deeper until he was fully inside me. He held still. My breath returned in long, uneven pulls. The pain subsided and became a deep glow.
He began to move. Long, deep strokes. My fingers clenched around the edge of the table.
“Whores get fucked in the ass,” he said. “Are you a whore?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “I’m a whore.”
“I’m using you like a whore. Are you my whore?”
“Yes. I’m your whore.”
It took effort not to add a title. The hardness felt good. Too good.
He stopped abruptly. My body jerked in anticipation of the next thrust. But it didn’t come.
“You didn’t think I was going to let you come already, did you?”
He pulled out. I stayed lying there, face against the wood, legs trembling. Empty and open.
“Do you have Netflix?” he asked. It was so unexpected I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.
I pushed myself up. My skirt fell back into place.
“Yes.”
“Good. I want to watch a bit of my series. First take everything off. Completely.”
My hands trembled as I obeyed. I pulled my skirt down, blouse over my head, unhooked my bra, slid my panties off my ankles. The clothes stayed in a heap on the floor.
“Go sit next to the TV. On your knees. Knees apart so I can see you properly. Hands resting on your thighs. And put that plug back in. Then the dildo. And you stay like that until I feel like it again.”
I knelt. The floor was hard and cold. First the plug. My body was still open and sensitive; it hurt again as I pushed it inside. Then the dildo I had laid out that afternoon according to his instructions, into my front. The silicone felt cool and heavy. I was wet enough, but the fullness was immense. I sat the way he had said: knees wide, hands on my thighs, head slightly bowed. Doubly filled. Waiting.
The blue light of the television fell across my skin. He sat relaxed on the sofa. Now and then he looked. The objectification gave me peace. I only had to be present.
“Get something to drink,” he said.
I started to stand.
“Crawling.”
I let the dildo slide out and crawled toward the kitchen. Every movement across the laminate was a confrontation with my own body. The hard, cold floorboards cut into my knees. With every shift of my hips I felt the heavy emptiness inside, as if my lower belly still tried to hold the shape of the silicone and his fingers. It was a raw, damp sensation between my legs that moved with every meter. I poured wine and crawled back, carefully setting the glass ahead of me. I handed it to him without looking up.
It felt incomplete. A man, wine, a series. Too bare.
“May I say something?” I asked.
“Go ahead.”
“You deserve something with the wine. It feels so empty. May I sit next to you? Like a table? Then you’ll have something to lean on and reach into now and then.”
He looked at me for a moment. Something slid across his face. Wonder, almost. Then it was gone.
“Show me what you mean, girl.”
I crawled to him and settled to the left of the sofa, ass up. The plug was still inside me. His hand landed on my backside.
“Sweet of you, whore. You’re a good hostess.”
He drank his wine and watched on. Now and then his fingers slid along the plug in my other hole. Now and then he gave me a firm smack. I timed my breathing to the sound of the series. I was an object. And in that simplicity I found rest.
When the episode was almost over, he turned toward me. A hard slap on my ass. In one motion he pulled the plug out. The emptiness was fierce. Immediately afterward three fingers, deep and hard. I grew wetter, more desperate. Then he withdrew them.
“Put your arms forward. Stretch them all the way out.”
The position was unstable. I supported myself on my knees and my forehead. I had nowhere to go.
I felt the pressure build. His hand. His fist. Slowly. Too slowly. Too much. It burned and glowed at the same time. There was no room left. No me left. Only this body being completely filled.
“How does this feel now?”
“It’s too much,” I whispered. “I have nowhere to go. You’ve completely… Master.”
The word was out before I could stop it. Not as play. As the only truth that existed in that moment.
His breath caught. I felt a tremor go through him.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said softly. “That’s what you came here for.”
Then he moved. Deep, merciless thrusts. I took everything. My body was no longer mine. It was his. Somewhere in my head and in my chest I dissolved. I was only skin and breath and the knowledge that I no longer had to be stronger than this.
When it was over I stayed hanging. Forehead on the floor, arms stretched out, body trembling. Not from cold. From release.
He pulled me up and against him. His arms around my waist, his mouth against my hair. For a moment he said nothing. I felt his heartbeat against my back, still fast. His hand stroked slowly over my belly, not demanding, only present.
I closed my eyes. The pain was still there, deep and dull. But underneath it lay something else. A large, quiet emptiness that was slowly being filled with the warmth of his body. I had given everything. More than I had thought beforehand I could give. And he held me.
After a while he lifted me and laid me on the sofa. He sat behind me, pulled a blanket over us and held me against him. His breathing grew slower. My cheek still burned lightly. Between my legs it pulsed heavy and sensitive.
I thought of the messages of the past weeks. Of the conversations that weren’t only about sex. Of the man who had laughed in the restaurant and now in the dark stroked my hair smooth.
“Stay a little longer,” I whispered.
He nodded against the back of my head.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
In that silence everything settled. The pain, the humiliation, the surrender. What remained was simple. I was home.
