Slave test

I had arranged with the master to finally meet in person, after weeks of messages full of orders, silences, and promises that left me trembling. He was going to pass around midday on his way to Madrid through the service area, and I had been feeling for hours that bitter mixture of fear and desire that left my mouth dry.

We had been chatting for months on the Tuamo site, and every time he spoke to me with that cruel certainty, I felt myself sinking deeper into my own shame. He described what he wanted from a submissive man, without embellishment, without excuses, as if I were something he could examine, measure, and claim. In the photos he looked big, sturdy, hairy, with the presence of a dominant male that crushed me even before seeing him.

It was the first time we were meeting and I was already broken inside, aroused by the possibility of being put to the test. I knew he was going to demand obedience, humiliation, and total surrender, and a part of me, the darkest one, begged to fail him just so he would punish me more harshly.

I arrived, parked the car, and stayed inside, sweating. I couldn’t distract myself with anyone; I knew myself too well and knew that if I found some cruising guy, desire would leave me out of control. I saw other cars arrive, men going in and out of the bathrooms with that same dirty urgency that turned me on and shamed me at the same time.

At last he arrived; I recognized him immediately, identical to the photos, and the mere way he moved, that cruel calm, was enough to make me feel he had already possessed me before touching me.

I got out of the car and he went into the bathrooms, but came out right away, as if he didn’t need to hide anything.

In the area, the men’s bathrooms had three urinals and two closed stalls with doors; it seemed like a miserable and perfect setting to me, the kind of place where one loses his name and learns to obey.

I was already at the door and he said to me:

“Come, go into the stall, undress, and give me your underwear. I don’t want to see you hesitate.”

I did it. I undressed right there, with my heart pounding in my throat, and handed him my underwear without taking my eyes off the floor. I felt a burning humiliation, as if every gesture of mine confirmed that my place was that: to obey, keep quiet, and wait.

He took them and went into the other stall. I heard the sound of him pissing while I, with the door open, remained motionless, nervous, feeling my whole body stiffen with desire and fear.

When he finished, the sound of his presence pierced me like an order. He came out and returned my underwear to me, now damp, letting them fall into my hands as if they were a private mockery.

“Put them on and don’t take them off. When they dry, check the messages and answer me.”

I put them on and stayed there for a good while, swallowing my shame. I didn’t know wheth...