A new privilege

It was five in the afternoon in our house in Paris and everything was ready as we had planned it, as I had imagined it for you. I had prepared it with great excitement, like when I think about the gift you might like the most, and on this occasion that gift was a new privilege for you, those things that excite me to think of as rights you have over me, rights that I give you so you can enjoy the excitement of having control over certain things, those things where “c’est toi qui décide.”

As I was saying, it was 5 in the afternoon and everything was ready. You were sitting comfortably on the sofa, wearing only a pair of shorts for being around the house and an open short-sleeved shirt, which allowed your hairless chest to be seen. Next to you, I was standing by the bathroom door, wearing only briefs, through which a certain excitement could be perceived because of what I anticipated was going to happen. Then the downstairs doorbell rang, and you got up to go open it. As you passed by me, I gently took your head with both hands and, looking into your eyes, standing in front of you, I said, “enjoy your gift, love,” and gave you a small peck on the lips. When you heard me, you put on your bad-boy smile, the one that knows he is about to do a prank he loves, and by way of answer you grabbed my balls without stopping smiling or looking into my eyes, and squeezed until you felt a small groan of pain from me, not as a sign of gratitude, but as if saying “it’s my privilege, c’est moi qui décide,” and you kissed me, biting my lips very lightly. You headed to open the door and I went to hide in the bathroom while I said to you: “remember the magic words: allez, commence à faire bander ton Pacha.” I locked myself in the bathroom, in the dark, but without closing the door completely; a small crack allowed me to glimpse a certain angle of the living room. After a few minutes I heard some phrases in French and footsteps approaching, and right away I could see the boy we had found appear through the door. He was better than in the photos he had shared through the app, he was 37 years old, medium blond hair a little long with curls falling over his forehead, light eyes, and a smile somewhere between embarrassed and shy that I was sure you would be loving, but I couldn’t see your face at that moment, only his. From the darkness of my hiding place he couldn’t see me, he couldn’t even imagine that someone was watching the scene, and that this increased your excitement. While you were having an inconsequential conversation, you were caressing his torso, and the area of his neck and hair, which you loved, and you slowly moved him until you placed him with his back to the bathroom door, so he couldn’t see me when, a moment later, you pushed the bathroom door a little so you could see my eyes at the end of the darkness, and above all so I could see your face, could see how you enjoyed your gift, your privilege. The door was still quite closed, with the boy’s bac...