A weekend in a farmhouse

The jingling of the buckles on my luggage was the only sound competing with the racing beat of my heart as I waited on my knees in the foyer of Master Germán’s house. I knew this weekend in Bilbao would not be a conventional getaway, but an absolute immersion in my condition as an edumissive slave, a total surrender to the designs of my owner and the group of dominant friends who had rented a farmhouse in the northern lands. When Master Germán’s boots appeared in my field of vision, I lowered my head until it brushed the floor, awaiting the first order of the day. Pick up your suitcase and take it directly to the minivan, edumissive, he ordered me in that deep voice that allowed not the slightest hesitation. I got up immediately, carried the luggage, and stored it in the trunk of the large black vehicle waiting at the entrance, already feeling the cutting cold of the morning on my hands. Germán opened the side sliding door and indicated with a gesture of his hand that I should get into the back, a spacious area where the seats had been arranged to leave an open space on the carpeted floor. Sit on the floor, with your backs to the direction of travel, he commanded coldly as he pulled a thick neoprene blindfold and a pair of gleaming steel handcuffs from his pocket. He adjusted the blindfold firmly over my eyes, plunging me into instant darkness that immediately sharpened my hearing and sense of balance, wiping away the outside world in one stroke. Immediately afterward, he brought my hands behind my back and closed the handcuffs around my wrists with two dry clicks that completely limited any ability to move or defend myself. I felt him pass the rear-seat safety belt across my torso to anchor me firmly against the chassis of the minivan, making sure I remained completely still and protected during the long road journey. The engine started with a muffled roar and the swaying of the trip began, transforming the following hours into a test of sensory isolation where the turns, the braking, and the sound of the tires against the wet asphalt were my only spatial references. I knew we were heading toward Biscay, but the deprivation of sight and the rigidity of the posture turned the journey into an eternity of mental expectation, wondering what kind of demands awaited me at the end of the road.

The trip ended with the crunch of gravel under the wheels and a noticeable drop in temperature that filtered through the vehicle’s gaps when the engine was turned off. I heard male voices and deep laughter outside, the sound of doors slamming and the movement of suitcases confirming that we had arrived at the isolated farmhouse in the valleys near Bilbao. Master Germán opened the rear door, unfastened the seat belt that imprisoned my chest, and took me firmly by the arm to guide my clumsy, blind steps out of the minivan. I walked dragging my feet over the damp stone, guided only by the pressure of his fingers on my bicep, climbing some wooden s...