CLICK, CLICK, ZIIIIIP LXIII.- SOMETHING TO TELL 🌀

Ángel doesn’t answer. Because for the first time in a year, he has no fucking idea what to say.

A submissive has no right to correct his Master; that’s how it is and it admits no replies. If your Master fucks whoever he wants, it’s because of that, because he is Master, and your obligation would be to strive to be the best. But the situation is much more complicated.

Ángel had the whole family eating out of his hand.

He sodomized and secured the loyalty of P’s mother and P’s wife, first one by one and then he even brought them together on the day of room 8 at the hotel.

And to the man of the house, to P, what he did was… was… much more than subdue him. He left his sphincter turned inside out from the fucking that his mother and his wife, blindfolded without knowing it, but all recorded on video.

That’s why the weeks that followed the day of room No. 8 were vital.

Ángel is not an idiot.

He knows that real domination is not built with a single act of brutality; that can create panic and therefore regression. Ángel knows it is built through repetition, routine, normalization, not all at once.

The video is the invisible chain that keeps them bound, because watching it is enough to begin understanding what they already are in relation to Ángel, but he wants something more than fear. He wants devotion.

The first week after room 8, Ángel didn’t touch them. He didn’t call them. He didn’t write to them. He lets them marinate in the horror of what happened, in the silence of a house where three people look at one another unable to speak about what they did. P can barely sit down. Laura doesn’t sleep. Cristina has locked herself in her room.

The following Thursday, Ángel sends a message to the WhatsApp group he has created: “Family.”

“Sunday. My place. 11 in the morning. All three of you. Showered and shaved. No underwear.”

No one answers. But on Sunday at 10:58 all three of them are at the door.

Ángel opens in his underwear. His belly showing, his hair a mess, a coffee in his hand. He nods toward the living room.

“Sit down.”

The three sit on the sofa. P in the center, Laura to his right, Cristina to his left. None of them looks at the others.

Ángel drops into the armchair opposite them, legs open, scratching his balls over his underwear.

“We’re going to talk. No slaps, no dildos, no ropes. Just talk.”

Silence.

“P. Look at me.”

P raises his head. He has deep dark circles under his eyes. He has lost a little weight, but he’ll regain it quickly.

“Do you hate me?”

P opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Long silence.

“Because… because for years I wanted someone to force me. To stop pretending.”

Laura turns toward him. It’s the fi...