The old man and the thief: total domination

They had arranged it like that. Not over an empty chat, but face to face, weeks earlier, in a most discreet café: the seventy-year-old man, impeccable suit, and the dark-skinned forty-one-year-old, low voice, fixed gaze.

“I want you to come into my house,” the old man had said, his voice hoarse with shame and desire. “To surprise me. To overpower me. To suffocate me. To use me. Safe word: ‘red.’ If I say it, everything stops. If I can’t speak, three taps in a row with my hand. Do you accept?”

The other had smiled with that dangerous calm he liked so much.

“I accept. Tonight I come in. You pretend you’re not expecting it. I pretend I’m a thief. And we both know it’s our game.”

That night, the tired old man returned home. He had had a long day: dinner and a family visit. It was a good time, but he was exhausted… and also aroused, because he knew what was coming.

When he came in, for an instant he felt he was not alone. He looked around: no one in sight. Doors and windows closed. He told himself—as they had agreed—that he should keep up the fiction, and he let himself fall into the armchair, still dressed in his fine dark suit, white shirt, and a new tie, dark red, very formal and pleasant.

As always, he wore shiny black loafers and special socks: black with gray and white stripes, white heel and toe. He enjoyed dressing well even down to his underwear: black briefs and undershirt. He settled in, turned on the news… and let himself be overcome by sleep, knowing that the “thief” was already inside.

After a few minutes, silence. Very carefully the closet door in the guest room opened. The stranger came out of there—the same man from the café, dressed all in black: pants, shirt, gloves, sneakers, and socks—handsome face, dark eyes and hair, brown skin. In his pocket he carried the handkerchief and the bottle they had agreed on: not to do real harm, but for the scene of deep submission the old man had asked for.

He approached from behind the armchair and touched his shoulder. The old man barely stirred, pretending—and at the same time wishing—to remain asleep. Then the stranger sprayed the handkerchief and brought it close to his nose and mouth. The old man opened his eyes, tried to “scream” within the game, but only a muffled moan came out—mmmmhhhee—. He kicked; one shoe almost came off. He struggled with just enough strength of someone who wants to be overpowered… until his body went soft and he fell into a deep faint of pleasure and controlled lack of air, limp, without resistance. He had not said “red.” He had not tapped three times.

Confident, the stranger lifted him and carried him over his shoulder. One shoe was left behind. He carried him to a dimly lit bedroom and laid him on the bed. White hair, white mustache, slim and well-groomed. One sock had slipped down in the struggle.

The stranger looked at his prize—the prize he had been offered. He felt desire h...